


This Mortal Coil

by FayJay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-05
Updated: 2009-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion-piece to 'What Dreams May Come' & coda to Season 4 Finale.   Castiel has successfully escaped the archangels, but he has been badly injured & seeks assistance from the Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Mortal Coil

When Michael intervenes, Castiel flees in a welter of blood and grace and burning feathers, and prays – although he is no longer sure to whom – that he has held them off long enough to make a real difference. Long enough to help Dean in his task.

He hurls himself out of time and space and into the void with no particular plan beyond survival, concentrating only on leaving no trace, no breadcrumb trail to lead them after him; despite the slow spill of light welling up from his torn soul; despite the charcoal smolder of his wings. He locks his mind against the murmur of their speech and the reach of their hearing and makes himself small and secret, as Uriel must have done for all the time that he was plotting against the garrison. He is still breathless with the shock of what he has done: the bridges he has burned; the enemies he has made. He did not betray Heaven for Lucifer, nor for Uriel, nor for Anael. They were his kin and his commanders, and he honoured them, but he would not compromise his troth for their sake. But he has done it now, and there is no going back. He has made himself an outcast and an apostate for the sake of one damaged mortal man.

Castiel would make the same choice again, without a doubt, if he had to do it over, but he is still half-numb with the enormity of what he has wrought.

He is also very badly hurt, but he is a soldier and has been badly hurt before, so at first he does not appreciate the gravity of his injuries. He tends first to the mortal shell that he has, somehow, preserved from destruction, and sends soothing thoughts to the terrified little soul cradled deep within it. Jimmy Novak has understood very little of what has passed, for Castiel has cushioned him from the worst of it, but he knows enough to be frantic with fear and pain; so Castiel pauses long enough to sooth and stroke him into tremulous calm before he turns his attention to the damage to their shared flesh.

The logical course would have been to shrug off the ruined casing of meat and bone and let the human soul fly to its reward; to simply concentrate on healing _himself_ – but Castiel knows perfectly well what Dean would make of such behaviour. He would call Castiel an ungrateful son of a bitch, would hurl bitter, disappointed words at him like sharp-edged stones; knowing this, Castiel cannot simply abandon his vessel, even though it would be the right thing to do. Somehow, perversely, Dean Winchester seems to have become the voice of his conscience, rather than the other way around. And so he spends his remaining power too recklessly, in his efforts to heal Jimmy Novak's mangled form, until a sudden surge of weakness shocks him into pausing.

It should be a simple matter, knitting together his vessel's split skin and severed arteries, healing shattered bones and ruptured organs, restoring lost blood, crafting afresh the precious orbs of eyes and healing crisped and blackened meat, rebuilding crushed limbs and laying down a new layer of skin where the old one has been flayed away in strips. He manages to mend the worst of it, before he is able to separate out the myriad strands of agony that rack him and to realise that he should be paying more attention to the injuries sustained by his _true_ form. He had known there would be scars, had known himself battered and bruised and scraped raw, but Castiel sees now that one wound has gouged right into the very core of him, tapping deep into the grace chambered in his soul, like honey sealed sweet within a comb, so that now it is seeping slowly away, sapping his strength and draining his will.

He needs a hidey hole, a sanctuary, a deep dark cave far from the Host of Heaven where he can curl up and lick his wounds without fear of further harm. It appalls him to realise how thoroughly, how terrifyingly alone he is now, how utterly without resources or allies. This would be the moment to fly to Anael, to admit that she was right all along and beg for her help – if only he had kept faith with her. If only he had given up fighting against his Fall a little sooner, had stopped trying to be the loyal soldier he was meant to be, accepted the inevitable and sided with Anael and Dean. If only she were still out there, somewhere, terrible and beautiful and free, and ready to come to his aid, as she did against Uriel.

But she is not.

For a moment, pure hopelessness washes through him. Castiel has existed since the dawn of time, since the birth of the stars, and he has never, ever been alone before. He has always had the voices of his brethren whispering against his mind, has always known that he could reach out and touch them at any moment. Yes, he may have sought out privacy, may have tried to guard the deepest kernel of his self against casual intrusion, so that he might consider troubling questions that angels should not, in truth, consider. But he has never severed all contact in this fashion. It feels worse than losing a limb.

He feels his senses growing dull again, and for an instant he loses consciousness, another thing that has never happened to him before. Suddenly his life is rich with new experiences, and they are none of them very pleasant.

When he revives, Castiel considers, with what energy he has left, and wonders whether perhaps he should simply cease fighting altogether. Lucifer has risen, or not risen; Apocalypse is coming, or not coming. If Zachariah and the others succeed, then they may bring joy and peace to all these fearful human souls whom Dean Winchester wishes to hold to their miserable, pain-filled lives. Castiel knows that he should have let Jimmy Novak die, let him move beyond fear and suffering and into joy; instead he is forcing the man to endure this painful half-life. He should also, in truth, never have given in to the impulse to see Dean Winchester again, to apologise, to try to bridge the gap between them and make Dean understand the inevitability of his defeat. Tried to make him accept the righteousness of Zachariah's cause. Castiel should have known himself better, and known Dean better. Dean does not have it in him to bend – to break, yes, but not to bend. Not when it comes to what he _truly_ values. He is a righteous man. Castiel should have known that Dean would never accept a happy ending that included Sam's death. He must have known it, in his heart, but he could not stay away while Dean's soul was crying out for help.

He loses another moment, or a month, or a century – there is no knowing, in this limbo, how much time has passed while his awareness has faded out and then revived. Castiel wonders again why he is bothering to hold on to life at all. Surely it would be simpler, and much more pleasant, to simply let go? But this thought sends a tiny jolt of heat through him; after a little while he realises it is Jimmy Novak's soul doggedly cleaving to him, small and bright and painfully human, clutching on to life. Jimmy Novak does not want to die out in the void, and he does not want his wife or his daughter to die in some long-planned Apocalypse either. Jimmy Novak clings to Castiel fiercely, wraps firm little tendrils around him and tries to will him into being more like himself. But Castiel is hurt and heartsick, and he has nowhere to go. He can be of no use on the battlefield as he is. He has betrayed his kin – betrayed the Lord God – and this thought sends shudders of horror through him each time he lets himself draw near it. He has become anathema. There can be no happy ending after this for him; even if Dean succeeds in stopping Lucifer's ascension, the amassed forces of both Heaven and Hell will be hunting for Castiel. If Dean fails to stop the ascension, Dean is still part of Michael's plan, and he will be, at least for the moment, safe enough. Not so Castiel. If he returns to the world he will be an outcast, hunted by both sides. He will never know another moment's peace or certainty. It would be easier to drift away out here, to just slide into the numbness and the unknowing and let his light wink out, unmourned...

Castiel is not expecting the sharp stab of pain that this thought provokes, and it takes him a moment to realise that it is the angry little human soul trying to make its feelings on this matter clear. He is as bemused as an elephant finding itself attacked by a kitten, and something like startled amusement washes through him.

“You will not be held responsible for any deeds of mine,” he tries to reassure it, reaching down to stroke the furious, trembling little thing. “Your reward is secure.”

Jimmy Novak, Castiel gathers, is really not interested in the afterlife right now. He's an awful lot more interested in what's happening on earth, on the fate of his wife and daughter, and platitudes about celestial bliss are entirely unwelcome. Castiel suspects that Dean Winchester has been an unfortunate influence upon Jimmy.

“But there is nowhere I can turn,” he confesses at last, knowing that some of his own sense of isolation and terror is bleeding through to the affect human soul. “Would not it be much easier to simply let this be? To pass out of the world? Back there lies only treachery and ceaseless suffering.”

If Jimmy Novak could have bitten him at this point, Castiel is left in no doubt of the fact that he would have done so. Abruptly he is reminded that if Dean Winchester and his brother _have_ succeeded in stopping Lucifer from rising, they will presently be bearing the full brunt of the anger of the forces of Heaven and of Hell. While Castiel hides in the space between atoms, and feels sorry for himself.

This thought shames him to the core. This thought, more than sympathy for Jimmy Novak, more than the hope of God's forgiveness, galvanises him at last. He cannot leave Dean to face that alone, not while there is any trace of power left in him. It would be cowardice, pure and simple, and it would be unworthy of him. He has always expected that his death would come, in the fullness of time, upon the field of battle; if he had supposed that it would be at the hands of enemies rather than kin, well, then that simply goes to show that he is not privy to God's plans. (Or that he has ruined them? But that would presuppose that Castiel is more powerful than God, so – so if everything is predestined, then this too is part of the plan. And so perhaps, just perhaps, he has only defied Zachariah, and not the Lord God.)

Castiel feels Jimmy Novak's soul vibrating with excitement and enthusiasm, practically bouncing against him, as he gathers up his fraying strength and pushes them back into the world.

* * * 

There is blood on the floor of the convent, and a litter of bodies discarded like autumn leaves. But there is no sign of the Winchester brothers, and no sign of Zachariah either – although the angels _have_ been here, of that he is certain. But there has not, Castiel thinks, been a battle in this place.

Still, Lucifer has risen. There is no mistaking the evidence – he can still hear the air ringing with the fierce joy and the triumph of it, even through all the careful layers of his shielding. It frightens Castiel, and also – and this is frightening in itself – attracts him. Lucifer was always the brightest and the best of them, the most magnetic, the most dazzling. Castiel has absolutely no idea what the Lightbringer will do; he might blame the little mortal creatures before whom he would not bow, might wish to take revenge upon the whole earth. Or he might be most wrathful with the angels who did not support him. Or he might simply want to glory in the clean taste of the air, in the brightness of the sky and the sweetness of freedom. There has never been any second guessing what Lucifer will do.

One possibility is unavoidable, though; he might have chosen to possess Sam Winchester. Azazel went to great pains to make the boy a fitting host. And if he _has _ chosen to possess Sam Winchester, then Castiel needs to find Dean immediately.

He slips in the blood and stumbles as he turns, almost falling onto the body that had held the demon who called herself Ruby, and Castiel pauses. The human shell is empty as a discarded slipper, her pretty hair tumbled in a shadowy tangle on the cold ground, her fingers lying slack and open. Her shirt is stained with blood. Her face, in death, is a mask that Castiel cannot read; there is surprise there, perhaps, but for the most part she look peaceful. Victorious. A rebel or a true believer? A kindred spirit? Or the perfect enemy? He hopes that he will have the opportunity to find out. He hopes that Dean can tell him what happened here.

He reaches out with his mind very carefully, gingerly, straining to find a trace of Dean Winchester's soul. Dean wears Castiel's mark, and this means that he can always find the man. (Uriel did not realise this, it seems, or he could have forced Castiel to help him find Anael when the Winchesters hid her. Castiel did not _lie_ about his ability; he simply failed to offer up the information. He should have known, then, that he was too deeply involved with his mortal charge, and that his uncertainties about Zachariah's cause, and about Anael's guilt, were going to lead to his own fall. Perhaps he did know, and was simply afraid to acknowledge it? Certainly when he saw how she had used Dean, how she had presumed upon so short an acquaintance and had forged her own kind of intimacy with him, Castiel had wished that no compunction had stayed him from handing her over at once.)

There! There – a familiar pulsing brightness, the same vibration, the same pure thread of music that Castiel first found deep in the Pit. Dean Winchester's soul.

Castiel seizes hold of it, and lets himself be pulled through the fabric of the world to the place where Dean is. He stops short of appearing at the man's side, though; he steps back into being on the threshold of the abandoned house where the Winchesters have sought shelter, stumbling again and reaching out to clutch at the wall for support as he tastes the air around them. No sign of Zachariah here, and the place is fortified against both angels and demons entering uninvited. No trace of Lucifer either, and Castiel's relief is palpable. He had been horribly certain that Sam – well. One can never make predictions where Lucifer is concerned.

If not Sam, then perhaps Claire? For she too is a special child, descendant of the nephilim, a fitting host for an angel. Castiel does not know whether the unbridled horror that floods him at this thought is his own or Jimmy Novak's, but he is outside Jimmy Novak's house in the twinkling of an eye, bracing himself for what might lie inside and trying to muster the last crumbs of his strength.

Nothing. No trace or taint of the Lightbringer anywhere here, nor any angels either. The relief almost sends him to his knees, and for a moment Castiel considers walking up to the door and casting himself upon their mercy. Jimmy Novak's soul glows in agreement, and then falters. Castiel has already brought suffering enough to this family; if he hides here, he will be drawing the attention of Heaven and, perhaps, Hell, down upon two virtuous young women who do not know how to defend themselves from angels or demons. The pain that he feels then is a mixture of personal and general, a mixture of Jimmy's frustrated love and Castiel's own loneliness. But they cannot ask for help here.

Castiel reaches out once more to the blaze of Dean Winchester's soul and returns them to the threshold of the ramshackle house where John Winchester's sons have sought refuge.

It seems that Dean does not need Castiel to support him on a battlefield after all, or to rescue him from any private horrors, and now that the threat of battle is suddenly vanished, Castiel lets himself feel the waves of pain and weakness still rolling through him. Perhaps he will die here anyway, ignominiously – but at least he will not be alone. He raises his hand to knock, but he has barely touched the door when it is torn open, and he finds himself blinking into Dean's face. He isn't ready for the rush of emotion that he feels, and then Jimmy is surging up to catch him as he almost slips out of consciousness yet again. Odd, and embarrassing, to have to lean on the fierce little mortal soul, even if only for a moment. It is getting difficult to know where one of them ends and the other begins.

Dean Winchester's face is almost painfully beautiful, and he looks every bit as relieved as Castiel is. At first. And then the relief slides away and is replaced by something tense and angry.

“Where the hell is Cas?” he snaps, and Castiel knows a moment of baffled dislocation.

“Dean?” he says, wanting to explain, but then he feels his last fingerhold on consciousness slipping away, and then he's falling forward, heavy-limbed and clumsy, helpless – and the last thing he feels is Dean Winchester's arms, warm and strong and utterly dependable, catching him. Keeping him safe. Sanctuary, he thinks, with gratitude, and then he's gone.

* * * 

It's dark when he awakens, and he is lying naked – or mostly naked – between dirty sheets on a borrowed bed. It takes Castiel a long, baffled moment to process all the information his body is giving him, and he can feel Jimmy Novak's slumberous soul snuggling up against him in sleepy welcome. He is not accustomed to sleeping, or anything of the kind, but he finds that he feels a lot better. He has staunched the worst of his own metaphysical wounds, and he is beginning to heal; and while he was otherwise occupied, it seems that Dean or Sam (but he rather suspects Dean) has tended to what remained of Jimmy Novak's injuries. He feels a warm rush of gratitude again, and blinks into the candlelit darkness, straining to see Dean's face. The hunter has fallen asleep in a chair beside the bed, and Castiel is suddenly reminded, quite forcibly, of the time when Dean was hospitalised after Alastair – after Castiel asked – after Uriel – _oh._

The guilt is excruciating.

This isn't right, Castiel realises, when he can breathe again. His pure terror for the Novaks at the thought of Lucifer turning his attention to them, the towering delight he felt upon first seeing Dean, his sense of shame now at remembering how Dean has suffered because of him – this is not how angels feel. This is too intense, too passionate – too human. He begins to wonder how badly damaged he really is. He begins to wonder how much of his grace he has lost, and what that might mean.

“Dean?” He didn't mean to say it out loud, but somehow Castiel's mouth has shaped the word of its own accord, and Dean is jolting upright, wide-eyed and braced for attack. Then he blinks, and his face is very briefly glad when he meets Castiel's eyes – but then, as quickly as it came, the pleasure melts away. Castiel does not know what to make of this. And neither does he know why it should matter so very much to him, why he should want so badly to be the cause of Dean's smile. Dean's smile is like sunshine after a storm, but it is not usually directed at Castiel, and for some inexplicable reason this thought is causing him pain. He watches Dean lean forward, lifting a glass of water.

“Jimmy?” says Dean. “How you doing?”

Oh. It is rather lowering to realise how far Castiel has fallen. This is how little he resembles himself now. “Dean?” he says again, hoarsely. He wants to explain that he kept his promise. He wants Dean to be glad, to be proud, to be – something. “I held them off for as long as I could.” He watches startled understanding blossom in Dean's green eyes, and wishes that he wasn't so exhausted. He is finding it increasingly difficult to remain conscious.

Dean nearly drops the water. He sets it down and leans in closer, staring. “Cas? Shit, Castiel? You in there, buddy?”

Nobody had ever given him a nickname before Dean Winchester. Now it seems that everyone is using this diminutive for him, shaping him into someone new. Someone who is not Castiel, obedient warrior of the Lord. Someone he barely knows. “I am – sorry,” he manages to say, before his eyelids droop down again, and darkness claims him once more.

* * * 

Dean is asleep once more when Castiel fights his way back to consciousness. He is feeling stronger now, and as he looks over at the flicker of candlelight licking over Dean's freckles and turning the curve of his lowered lashes to gold, it occurs to him that there is another way he can speak with Dean. Perhaps a better way. He has done it before, after all.

Dreamwalking is a curious business. The realm of dreams, like Hell, is noncorporeal; and, as in Hell, what the humans perceive is based upon the images and symbols that they know. Castiel considers, and then reaches into Dean's memories and builds a safe, familiar environment in which to have this conversation. Red and white checkered tablecloths, plastic menus, pretty young women in pale green uniforms with embroidered name tags. The smell of coffee and of food being fried. The quiet buzz of conversation. Light pouring in through plate glass windows with words hand painted on the outside. And, as a final, whimsical touch, a fat slice of pie topped with a decadent mound of cream. Castiel looks around at his creation with a touch of something like nervousness, and then nods to himself. It will do.

He is sorry that even here, where he is not bound in any mortal shell, Dean Winchester will not be able to see his true form or hear his true voice. But it would be terrifying and alien, and this world is made of things Dean knows and understands, so Castiel damps down his brightness and furls away his wings and dresses himself in the semblance of Jimmy Novak's body. He draws a deep breath, and slides this world he has created around Dean's sleeping mind.

There is a long instant where Dean does not know he is there; a span of time where Castiel is free to look upon Dean's gently freckled skin and watch the light gild the curve of his ear. He looks younger here, and more innocent. And, beneath this comfortable seeming, Castiel can see the truth of Dean, the lambent loveliness of his soul, still brilliant and unsullied despite all he has endured. It still takes Castiel's breath away, and he is ashamed that he has not been a better guardian. That he has let his loyalties be divided. Dean deserves more.

He draws a breath. “Dean, I am truly sorry that I needed to deceive you.”

Dean's head jerks up from his happy contemplation of the pie, and there is a delicious instant where his face is open and unguarded, where he looks at Castiel like a friend. And then Castiel watches the light dim, and Dean's expression become shuttered and suspicious. He is taken aback by how much this transformation hurts him.

“You lied to me,” says Dean, laying down his spoon and crossing his arms in front of his chest. This is Castiel's opportunity to explain, or to try to explain. He thought it would be easy; he did not count on how much he would be affected by the sight of Dean. He scrabbles for words.

“They said that it was needful and I thought that this was true,” he says.

Dean looks disgusted. “Newsflash: Apocalypse? Bad. Honesty? Good.” Dean shakes his head. “How the hell can you get such basic stuff mixed up?”

“I see that I was wrong,” Castiel says unhappily, wishing they were not from such completely different worlds. Wishing that Dean could understand. This may have been another stupid mistake, like entering the Green Room to apologise. He does not know why he insists on trying to connect with Dean. “I thought that you would be at peace,” he says, very softly, looking down at the table's checkered surface. “I wanted that for you.”

“At peace – meaning _dead_? Fuck that noise, Cas!” How has he forgotten how deeply Dean affects him? The honesty of his emotions cuts like a knife. Castiel does not want to see the anger that he knows will be on Dean's face, but he can feel the pressure of Dean's glare and cannot help looking up again. Some of his misery must be clear, because after a moment Dean's expression softens. “Still – you came through in the end,” he says, more gently. “Thanks.” It is the kindness that undoes Castiel. He feels himself brimming with some unnameable emotion, something hot and tender and thrilling. So he is a little bemused when Dean's eyebrows suddenly furrow, and he asks: “Hey, are you – did you – are you dead?”

He blinks. “I was extremely close to death till Michael intervened.”

“Michael?”

Castiel looks away, out through the window and at the blue sky beyond, and remembers the terror and the fury and the sudden relief at the sight of Michael's sword raised against his attackers. “I do not know what prompted him to act on my behalf, but by the time he interfered it was almost too late.”

“So – not dead?”

“I have sustained great injuries but given time I'll heal. They did not take my grace.” He does not add how close it was. He does not mention the violation to his soul, or the way that he and Jimmy Novak are starting to bleed disturbingly into one another. He does not mention that he fears his divinity has been irredeemably muddied, that he is becoming something closer to human. The thought frightens him, and it is no concern of Dean Winchester's.

“Oh. Well, that's – that's good. Cool.” Dean scowls. “What's with you, though? You were going to tell me about Lilith. You _were_, right? Before they dragged you off to Angel Rehab? What the hell did they _do _ to you, man? What happened to turn you into such a fucking Stepford Wife?”

Castiel flinches. He should perhaps have expected this question, but he did not. The memories are still excruciating. “You do not want to know,” he says, firmly, without looking at Dean.

“Yeah, I do,” says Dean, leaning forward. “I really kinda do. How bad could it be? It was _Heaven_, for fuck's sakes. And you were gone, what, a few days? They take away your harp? Make you listen to Celine Dion, or something?” His tone is mocking, and Castiel forces himself not to mind. The mortals have no understanding of reality, and this is not their fault.

“Heaven is not corporeal, nor is it bound by time,” says Castiel at last. “You know that we can move through years as simply as through miles.” It was not simply a few days, and they did not take away his harp.

He hears startled comprehension in Dean's voice. “How – how long _were_ you gone?”

“They took as long as they needed to take,” he says. He looks up. “And they were very thorough.” There are no words for this in any language that Dean understands.

“Seriously, man. What the fuck?”

“They made me see that life on earth is suffering and pain,” he says, trying not to remember. Trying not to relive. “They made me understand why paradise would be a gift.”

“You're not talking about some documentary about life in the Third World here, are you?” Dean gets it now, as much as he can. Castiel is glad that there is no way Dean can really understand what he endured. He would not wish this knowledge upon Dean Winchester, who has already suffered far more than any man should.

Looking over at Dean, at the unwilling concern on his face, Castiel's mouth curls very slightly into something almost like a smile. “There was no documentary,” he acknowledges. “They made me truly see. Just as I have experienced sensation through this form.” He glances down at the semblance of Jimmy Novak's body. “But I could not control any of what befell my hosts. It was not true possession – I was at one remove.”

It occurs to him, for the first time, that Jimmy Novak must feel something like that. Although Castiel has tried to stifle his awareness as much as he can, has tried to keep Jimmy tucked down safely in a kind of hibernation. But he knows that it doesn't always work. How has it felt for Jimmy Novak, to be riding along inside, helpless to effect what happens to his body? Trapped and impotent while Castiel flings himself into battle, clumsy in his casing of flesh and gravity? This is a new kind of guilt.

“Shit,” says Dean. “They – what, they made you experience other people's – what, torture?” His tongue stumbles a little on the word.

Castiel nods, and forces himself to be calm. Dean deserves the truth, at least as much as he can comprehend. “There is no form of suffering that they denied to me – nothing that can be done to any man, woman or child, in warfare or at home, by strangers or by friends. No kind of violation they allowed me to avoid.” He stares down at the tablecloth, with its neat squares of red and white. He has seen so much blood spilled now. Felt it as if it were his own. He has seen so much ugliness, so much cruelty, so much needless pain. He tries not to remember faces and names and details, but of course it is impossible to avoid that knowledge. It has been burned into his soul. “I had not understood before how brutal your lives are,” he says, softly. “I saw only the beauty and the brightness of this world. But now I see it all.”

“Oh,” Dean says, awkwardly. “That – well, yeah, okay, that sucks.”

The inadequacy of this statement sends a startled jolt of amusement through Castiel. He finds himself brimming with affection for Dean, and his powers of understatement. “It was not very pleasant,” he agrees. “But it was educational.”

Dean is watching him closely. He looks worried. “But – it was bullshit. You get that, right? They only showed you that stuff to fuck with your head.”

“They made me see the truth,” Castiel explains. “I had been quite naïve.”

“But – Apocalypse bad,” says Dean. “However shitty life may be, Apocalypse? Still bad.”

Castiel just looks at him. There are so many things he could say now. Or he could reach across the table and press his fingers up against this semblance of Dean's skin, could force an intimacy between them and _make_ Dean bear the weight of anguish and hopelessness, the unaleviated suffering and despair. That is the only way that Dean would be able to understand the truth. But of course he would never wish that upon Dean, and so Dean will never understand.

“Serenity and peace and love,” Castiel says, at last. “An end to suffering. It is a noble cause.”

“But...” Dean waves his hands in the air. “But you turned your back on the dark side of the Force! You stood up to them! You saw that they were wrong!”

“I saw that _you _were quite sincere in choosing life on Earth,” says Castiel, very gently. “I do not understand why you would choose this over peace, but if you want mortality with all its dirt and pain, then I must honour that.”

Dean stares. “So – you're saying this was for me?”

Castiel wets his lips, but doesn't say anything for a long moment. “I do not know whether my choice was pleasing to the Lord,” he replies eventually. “But I would have you happy, Dean, whatever form that takes.”

“Oh.” Dean's eyes are very wide and very, very green. He looks oddly defenseless and innocent, and Castiel has a sudden impulse, almost overwhelming, to reach out and gather Dean to him. To hold him close, shield the effulgence of his soul from all harm the way he did in the Pit. To cleave to Dean like a second skin, twine around him, keep him safe from all the whips and scorns of time. He wishes more than anything that he could protect this man, and reward him for all that he has already endured.

Dean's mouth falls open a little, as he stares back at Castiel, and his expression is startled and unreadable. “Is this – do you – Cas, is this...?” His voice trails away.

“You have been singled out by God,” says Castiel, trying to will Dean to understand that he is wonderful. That all the harrowing experiences he has lived through were not because he is unworthy, but because he is worth so very much. “You are exceptional.”

And then Castiel surprises them both by giving in to an impulse of tenderness, and leaning close to kiss Dean chastely on the forehead.

“Cas?” Dean looks quite shocked. But not angry. His voice breaks a little. “Castiel?”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, feeling rather shocked himself at his own daring. He should leave. Now. “You gave me time to heal myself, and tended to my vessel. I have imposed on you too long.”

“No, that's - no, Cas, it's fine,” says Dean, urgently. “Cas – don't – whatever it is you're thinking, don't do it.”

Castiel shakes his head. He wants to stay. He really wants to stay. And it frightens him more than a little. He should go. “I would not lead the Host to you,” he explains, although that is not the whole truth. “It is past time I left.”

“No!” And it warms Castiel to hear the fierceness in Dean's voice. Dean wants him to stay – not because he must account for himself, or explain the will of Heaven, but simply because Dean does not want to lose his company. “Don't you dare run out on me now!”

But Castiel has said what he came to say, and he has a strong feeling that it would be unwise to stay here in this malleable realm with Dean Winchester turning such an open and avid green gaze upon him. Unwise to risk the temptation of getting any closer to Dean than he already is.

He suspects that the kiss was a very bad idea indeed, for all that he only meant to comfort.

He _thinks_ he only meant to comfort.

...he must go.

 

* * * 

When he wakens once more, Castiel feels a lot stronger. He has the sense – although how, he could not say – that Dean's presence is actually helping him to heal. That the warmth and prickly compassion he feels coming from Dean, even in sleep, have helped him immeasurably. Castiel sits up gingerly, itemising the various twinges of discomfort Jimmy Novak's body still feels. It has been frightening to be so vulnerable. He should leave now, before Zachariah finds some way to track him down. His energy is much restored already, and although he feels – different – still he is relieved to be approaching his true strength once more.

Experimentally, Castiel slides his hand over one of the minor abrasions to Jimmy's skin, and he feels a little spark of warmth as the skin heals perfectly. He smiles. And then he lets himself look at Dean.

He looks older and wearier than he did in the dream. It is not, after all, as if Dean Winchester is the most perfectly formed creature Castiel has ever seen. He is pleasingly symmetrical, of course, and he takes great care to maintain his body in good health and strength, which is pleasant to look upon. Castiel knows that women – and indeed some men – find Dean Winchester extremely attractive, physically. He is considered a highly acceptable potential mate by most of the young mortals with whom he interacts, whether or not they choose to do anything about it. His teeth are straight, and his smile is charming, and his limbs are firm and shapely.

None of that has anything to do with the way that Castiel finds himself drawn to Dean. Even in the depths of Hell, Dean's soul had shone like a bonfire in the darkness, had blazed like a star in the firmament. There is so much passion and courage and _virtue_ to the man (something he would undoubtedly be incredulous to hear) that it makes him impossible to ignore. The contrast between that pure, brilliant soul and the crass mortal surface, the harsh words and the lowered brows, the knives and guns and fine display of careless hedonism - _that_ startled Castiel at first, and fascinated him. The anger, the vulgarity, the rebelliousness. The flat refusal to defer to his betters. It was not at all what the angel had expected. But the longer he has spent with Dean Winchester, the more Castiel has found himself esteeming him. Wanting Dean to esteem _him_ in return. And now he finds himself growing unaccountably warm and joyous from Dean's simple presence. More – now he finds himself wanting to hold Dean close, the way he clasped him in the Pit. The way Dean caught him when he arrived at this place. Castiel doesn't know quite what to think about this impulse, but it is almost overwhelming; he can almost feel the texture of Dean's skin against his own, the reverberation of Dean's heartbeat pulsing through his frame; the warmth of his breath. Castiel cannot recall ever craving a physical sensation the way he is beginning to crave this. He sits up in the bed and considers whether it would be appropriate – and of course it would not be at all appropriate for him to go and, what, embrace the man? That is something that humans do, with the other humans they care about most intensely. Or the ones they desire, however fleetingly. It is an unaccountable impulse, and he is almost certain that it would startle and disturb Dean.

He has no idea why that thought saddens him.

Castiel continues to run his hands gently over the surface of Jimmy Novak's skin, over the places where Dean (or possibly Sam) has carefully patched up the remaining injuries. It makes him feel a warm little glow of something unfamiliar, to know that while he was lying there so vulnerable, he was being cared for. Cherished. Kept safe.

Or at least, Jimmy Novak was, Castiel reminds himself, feeling the skin sewing itself back perfectly under his touch as he completes the work that Dean began.

When he has finished healing all the little wounds, Castiel continues to stroke the surface of this body almost absentmindedly, as he surveys Dean. He has never given this borrowed body any particular consideration, tucked safely away under all the layers of clothing; it is interesting to feel the different sensation of skin sliding against skin. He trails his fingertips over his chest, lets the short nails scrape gently against the skin for a shift of pressure, and then gives a slight jump when he brushes over one nipple and feels an unexpected dart of pleasure at the touch. He does it again, and feels the nipple grow hard and tight underneath his fingers. He blinks, and licks his lips, and tries it a third time, with the same result. It makes him squirm at the sheer deliciousness of the sensation.

Castiel has watched humans doing this to themselves and one another, of course, but he had never been particularly curious about how it might feel.

He suspects, now, that this may have been very remiss of him.

Experimentally, he repeats the actions with the other nipple, with the same result. Emboldened, he tries pinching one, as he has seen others do, and is surprised into a stifled moan. Castiel is startled by the _intensity_ of the sensations; after feeling so much pain, both physical and metaphysical, the dart of sensual pleasure is utterly unexpected. He is not particularly surprised to feel blood rushing to his groin, but he watches the growing bulge in his underwear with a mixture of interest and trepidation.

He feels Jimmy Novak uncurling inside, stretching and rising up to the surface of his consciousness to investigate what's happening; feels him curious and taken aback, and then amused. Jimmy, of course, knows this body and its reactions very well indeed.

Castiel licks his lips, and sends a tentative and inchoate question to the mortal whose body he is inhabiting. The answering “Hell Yes!” could not have been more emphatic, and it occurs to Castiel for the first time to wonder whether Jimmy Novak misses all the pleasures of the flesh. Perhaps he should try indulging in food, some time soon – pie, perhaps, since Dean rates it so highly. Or a hamburger. He is growing reckless and gladiatorial; since he has turned his back upon the orders of Heaven, a little carnal indulgence seems like a fairly minor infraction at this point. A hamburger _and _ pie. Why not? And French fries. And ketchup. And coffee. And beer.

It is Jimmy Novak who draws his attention back to the business at hand. Jimmy who slides his fingers – their fingers – inside the white boxers and wraps them around the erection with a surety borne of long practice. Castiel gasps, and bites the knuckles of his other hand, and decides to let Jimmy take the lead. He clearly knows what he's doing, and it is, after all, _his_ body that is plaguing them with its demands. So Castiel sits back, quivering, and lets the waves of sensation crash over him as Jimmy Novak strokes and rubs and pulls and tugs eagerly at the ridiculous piece of swollen flesh that juts angrily up from their lap. The pleasure is urgent and overwhelming, almost agonising in its intensity, and Castiel just watches, wide-eyed, and _takes_ it as Jimmy's fingers move skillfully over his own skin, wringing their body with helpless delight. Castiel can feel waves of pleasure pouring from Jimmy's soul as well as from the body itself – pleasure at being able to sit in the driving seat again, at being able to feel human again, even if only fleetingly, rather than remaining curled up tight, compressed into something tiny and primal, a bright little pearl of inarticulate, half-conscious self. Pleasure, and a dash of something victorious and not entirely kind, at being able to make Castiel come apart under his touch. For that is what he is doing – he is shattering Castiel's composure and shocking him with this unexpected exaltation, this earthy form of bliss. He is undoing him.

This is not right, Castiel thinks, wildly. Angels do not react this way. He is not what he once was. (But – he is not sure that he regrets the change.)

As Jimmy quickens the movements of their hand and adds a little half-twist of the wrist, Castiel bites down hard on their lower lip and clenches their other hand tightly in the rough fabric of the coverlet. His breathing is ragged and uneven, and he cannot help thinking back with wonder upon all the men and women he has seen enraptured thus; he had watched with polite curiosity, knowing that this impulse was hard-wired into them, like eating and excreting, and understanding it not at all. Now he can only wonder, desperately, how on earth they ever manage to get anything else accomplished, with a source of such powerful delight _right there_ all the time. Sweat beads their skin as Jimmy works their erection with hungry efficiency, and Castiel gasps and writhes and pants, and lets their eyes flutter closed. He surrenders himself utterly to Jimmy Novak's touch.

Dean Winchester does this, Castiel thinks abruptly – and although he has always known this, the reality hits him now with the impact of revelation. Alone and with others, Dean Winchester knows this helpless rush of pure sensation. Castiel forces his eyes open and peers through his lashes at Dean's sleeping form, and he is no longer quite sure whether the flood of images that follows are his own thoughts, or Jimmy's, or a blend of the two. But he is transfixed by the knowledge that Dean Winchester is naked underneath the thin layers of clothing; he has skin that is soft and pale and freckled, skin full of nerve endings that could set him to shuddering if a hand or a mouth moved just right; he has flat pink nipples that could pebble up hard and eager under pinching fingertips or a clever tongue; he has strong arms and thighs and a sensitive penis that could twitch and swell and jerk beneath a firm hand or a wet mouth. He has buttocks that curve tight and muscular, and a spine that is straight and flexible. Soft lips, and a warm, wet tongue. Skillful fingers of his own. And Dean _loves_ this, Castiel knows; he loves to touch himself like this, or to lose himself in the arms of some girl whose name he barely knows, to push his hard, hot flesh inside a willing mouth, or deep between her thighs...

It is such a short step to the next thought, and yet the shock of it rocks Castiel to his core; it pulls the universe apart around him and reassembles it into a whole new pattern, and suddenly Castiel is no longer content to lie passively back while Jimmy Novak handles their flesh. Suddenly Castiel is squeezing their fingers tighter around their erection and frantically quickening the rhythm, his eyes fixed on Dean.

_He_ could lie with Dean the way that humans do. Touch him, feel his hands, his mouth, the clean curves of muscled limbs and unscarred skin, the lovely human flesh that Castiel rebuilt so carefully, that Castiel knows inside and out, cell by cell. He could handle it as a lover would, and feel Dean quivering at his touch; could watch Dean's eyes grow dark with desire; could make him gasp and writhe and moan; could taste Dean's warm, wet mouth with his own...

The orgasm almost pushes Castiel right out of the envelope of their shared flesh. It _does_ send his wings punching out into the air, flexing dark and diaphanous and potent in the cramped little room. The candles gutter even as Castiel's own light spills out for an instant, blindingly bright and unconstrained.

Castiel falls back, shocked and sticky, panting, blissed out and lazily tangled up with Jimmy Novak's soul. Jimmy is, he senses, both sated and smug.

Castiel stares up at the ceiling, and tries to make sense of what has happened to him, of what he is becoming, and he realises that he really must leave. Now. He should have left as soon as he awoke. It sends a pang through him at the thought of taking himself away from Dean Winchester, but if he stays he knows, now, that he has more to fear than the Hosts of Heaven and the hordes of Hell. If he stays, Castiel does not know that he will be able to resist taking advantage of Dean. Dean Winchester could tempt him into any folly, any betrayal – but he will not do this. He may be growing corrupt, may be finding himself a prey to human passions, but he will not force himself upon a defenceless mortal man to satisfy his own selfish, new-minted desires. That would be truly shameful, and poor recompense for Dean's kindness.

So he must leave.

He sees the sense of it, but it still breaks his heart. Nevertheless, he can feel his strength is almost restored, and his vessel is perfect once more. Anael managed to do this, to hide away from their kind. Castiel will bide his time, will watch and wait and gauge what course will best serve the Lord's will. Or what course Dean Winchester, the voice of Castiel's conscience, would approve.

He pulls himself upright and closes his eyes, and a moment later Castiel is clean and composed, fully dressed once more in Jimmy Novak's newly-mended clothes. The sky outside is softening into dawn, a hopeful flush of sunlight making the drapes blush bright. Castiel stands over Dean for a very long moment, looking down at his peaceful features, and regrets not having been a better friend to this man. And then, since he is doing the right thing, since he is not going to slide his borrowed fingers underneath Dean's clothing or explore the secret hollow of his mouth, Castiel gives in to one small, harmless impulse and, leaning forward, brushes Dean's temple with his lips in a chaste, feather-soft kiss.

“Be safe,” he murmurs, both a blessing and an entreaty.

A heartbeat later he is gone, and the only trace of his presence is a single translucent feather that lies, quiet and forgotten, like a shadow on the bed.


End file.
